The only person besides Kate who would listen to his crazy story about the phone call and not fall over laughing was Wilma.
He'd known Wilma Getz since he was eight, when her parents moved next door, up on Harley Street. She was in graduate school at USC, having returned to college after breaking off a bad marriage. She'd stayed with her folks during vacations while she interned in various law enforcement agencies. A tall, slim, stunning blond, she was his first love, her warm smile and her easy ways sending his eight-year-old libido into a wild juvenile spin.
Even then, when he was eight, Wilma had always had time to listen to him, always had time for a game of catch or to toss a few baskets in his driveway. Over the years, she had never lost her ability to listen and to ease him.
Wilma's passion for law enforcement had taken her from USC to State Parole, then to Federal Probation and Parole in San Francisco, and then to Denver. She had retired from the Denver office five years ago. Returning to Molena Point, she had gone to work in the understaffed village library, where her thorough, almost picky approach to a problem was put to good use as a reference assistant.
He had to talk with Wilma. There was no one else who, upon hearing his description of that phone call and the reasons why the caller couldn't have been any of his friends, wouldn't suggest an appointment with a local shrink.
He poured the last of the coffee and carried his cup into the bedroom. He phoned the library to see if Wilma was free for lunch, but she'd taken the day off. When he called the house, there was no answer. Annoyed, he decided to run by. Maybe she was only out walking. He hung up the phone, tossed his shorts in the laundry bag, and got in the shower.
7
At the foot of the Molena Point pier ran a boardwalk. The strip of muddy shore beneath it was never touched by sunlight. In that damp gloomy world under the pilings sour smelling puddles oozed, their surfaces scummed with green algae, their murky depths half-concealing empty, rusted beer cans and the sheen of broken wine bottles. A few boulders rose from the damp sand, and between these were strewn additional cans, fish bones, and sodden cigarette butts.
In the half dark between the puddles, the wet sand was crisscrossed with the pawprints of an occasional dog or with human prints, barefoot or with embossed rubber patterns. But the preponderance of prints were cat tracks.
Despite the damp, inhospitable environ, Molena Point's few stray cats considered the roofed shadows their own. They moved from the area only when forced out by children or dogs, or by desperate lovers with nowhere else to find privacy. Then, routed from their home, the cats crouched in the bushes at the edge of the beach, waiting patiently to return.
The area stank of dead fish and of cat. The cat colony was small, and these few thin beasts were the only strays in the village. They were fed weekly by one or two elderly villagers, but they made their meals primarily on fish offal carelessly thrown down from the dock above as village fishermen cleaned their catch.
None among the strays had the courage to cross the beach and make its way up the village streets to see what better fare, or perhaps a better life, might be available.
None of the lean, starving cats had any notion of the elegant repasts offered in the alley behind George Jolly's Deli. The mangy felines fought constantly over their meager fish scraps, and over the weekly, dry cat food. Sometimes a boy brought food, too, a skinny kid on a bike. He left not only cat kibble, but traps, placing several metal cages under the boardwalk, simple wire boxes with oneway doors leading in, but no way to get out. The cats were understandably wary of the arrangement.
But when all other food had been eaten, when they were desperate with hunger, one or two among them would chance the encounter, slinking in after the food. Caught there, the cat would eat his fill and then, unable to get out, would crouch in misery, though somewhat appeased by a full belly. Hours later the boy would return and take both cat and trap away with him.
The other cats didn't notice that one or several of their number had disappeared, nor would they have cared. They fought over breeding rights, fought for no reason, fought constantly for the best damp, cold niche between the boulders, in which to sleep or rest.
In a dark concavity between the bank and a wet piling hunched a cat so filthy she looked like old, used scrub rags. For uncounted days she had hidden beneath the boardwalk, sleeping on the mud, drinking sour rainwater, fighting the other cats for fish scraps and for a place to rest. She had no knowledge of how she had come there. Her pale, dirty coat and tail were matted with mud, and her fur was marked with strange rusty streaks, as if she had been crawling though the rusty drainage pipes which emerged at intervals along the shore, spilling gutter water into the sea. She didn't seem to care that she was dirty; she made no effort to wash herself. She avoided the other cats as best she could, and she stayed away from the gridded indentations in the sand, where the metal cages had stood, because the sand there smelled strange. Crouching alone, shivering, she huddled among the boulders hungry and confused.
This cat had no imprinted memories as would a normal cat, no recollection of an earlier life. No sense of where she had been before she came here. No reference of past, familiar smells or of remembered physical sensations. She did not remember ever being petted, had no memory of either stroking or of pain.
A cat's memory is built on shapes and sounds and scents, on the swift movement of prey, on images which speak directly to her senses. Cold stone beneath the paws, wet grass tickling the nose. A warm soft blanket beneath kneading claws. Hot concrete warming a supine body, hot tarry rooftops to roll on. Soft words, soft hands stroking, or cruel hands. Memory of a screaming voice, of rocks thrown at her; of the shouting and abuses of small boys. Memories of hunting: the swift dive of a bird on the wind, the warm taste of mouse.
This cat's memory held nothing. No lingering feline imprint of place or of experience. If she had a past, it was gone.
But she had retained one puzzling fragment: a recollection of sounds so alarming that when they assaulted her in half sleep she woke shivering and quaking. Sounds as unwanted as broken glass puncturing her paw, and she could not escape them. Within her confused memory, human voices spoke.
This was not the incomprehensible shouting of tourists on the walk above, or the softer voices of the village fishermen as they sat idly in the sun. These were words occurring inside her head, and they were spoken directly to her, as if she should understand.
The sensation was terrifying. But yet the voices touched something deep within her. When they spoke, some presence tried to stir. She was riven by fear, but she was nudged by something more, by a sharp anticipation.
But each time the voices spoke, her terror won the battle. Each time they spoke, whispering, beguiling her, she hissed and dropped her ears and tried to back away. Shaken by spasms of fear, she fled into the darkest shadows, where the ground rose to meet the wooden walk.
But she could not escape. The voices were relentless, as bold as the thin, wild cats which hazed her.
Thus without joy she remained beneath the damp walk, fighting her small, incomprehensible battles. Thus she might remain for the rest of her life unless the voices could reach her.
8
Joe lay atop the marble posterior of a naked lady, one of a trio of pale nymphs caught in eternal frolic in the center of a plashing fountain. The figure he had chosen leaned over to splash herself, providing him with a long, sun-warmed resting place quite protected from the bouncing spray. From her sleek, sun-warmed body, he had an unbroken view in all directions.
Surrounding the fountain was a half acre of private lawn sheltered on three sides by an eight-foot stone wall over which, at intervals, cup of gold vines were trained. On the fourth side of the smooth green stood a three-storied Tudor mansion. The handsome structure was steep-roofed, with four stone chimneys, and had heavy oak half-timbers set at the corners between the creamy walls. Joe could see inside through a set of deep French windows, a sitting room furnished with soft blue velvet se
ttees arranged on a pale oriental rug. On the creamy walls hung bright California landscapes framed in gold.
The midmorning sun beat down on the smooth marble, creating a little oasis of heat. Stretched out across the lady's smooth rump, he felt his short tail flick with lazy contentment. He yawned. The beauty of this arrangement was that, even if he napped, and even with the noise of the gently falling water, he would certainly be alerted to anyone coming over the wall.
If Beckwhite's killer came looking for him, a possibility extremely doubtful, the only other way in was up the drive at the far side of the house, or through the house itself. He had found, in this delightful setting, the perfect hideout.
And to cap it off, he'd never lived so well. He had landed in the lap of true luxury. He was so full of breakfast that he belched.
He had dined royally this morning courtesy of the elderly, round-faced housekeeper of the estate. She had served him leftover broiled salmon, a bowl of thick cream, and a selection of soggy canapes that included chopped goose liver and black caviar. Breakfast had been as fine a meal as he had ever been offered by George Jolly. Certainly it was far beyond the canned cat food that some people thought of as a suitable breakfast.
He had taken his repast on the side patio of the mansion, a wide stone expanse with a view of the eastern mountains. As he enjoyed his leisurely meal, the old woman pottered about nearby, watering her geraniums and singing little snatches of Irish ballads. She was a skinny little thing with a face like a ferret, but with a kindness for cats and with a sunny disposition.
Given the quality of the cuisine and the friendliness of the housekeeper and her husband, and the safety which the high stone wall afforded, the temptation to stay there was powerful. There was nothing to stop him from moving right in, establishing headquarters.
He could hear, at this moment, from around the side of the house, the voices of the housekeeper and her husband; the husband seemed to be the caretaker. They sounded relaxed and happy. Despite the elegant leftovers, they appeared to be the only humans in residence at the moment, and that suited him just fine.
Last night, when the housekeeper discovered him in the garden, she had seemed delighted with his company.
He had, growing tired of mice and birds, approached the back door, where he could smell a beef roast cooking. He trotted up the stone steps and stood looking in through the glass door, into a spacious kitchen and breakfast room. The breakfast room was done up in hand-painted tiles and flowered chintz, very bright and homey. His first mewl brought the old woman's glance from where she was setting the table.
She had opened the door wide. "It's a kitty. A stray kitty. Henry, come look." And she had invited him right on in.
The husband was a small man with a huge brown mustache and huge hands. To be stroked by those hands was like being petted by a catcher's mitt.
She did not offer Joe food until she had put supper on the table and she and Henry had sat down.
As she served the plates, she fixed a plate for him, too, much as Clyde would do at supper. Only this meal was out of Clyde's league. She put the plate on the floor beside the table.
That meal had been just as fine as this morning's breakfast, a slice of rare prime rib cut small and served warm and bloody, and mashed potatoes and gravy, all artfully arranged on a cracked, hand-painted porcelain plate. And for desert a dollop of rum custard.
A few days of this, and he'd be so fat he wouldn't be able to run from a one-legged turtle, let alone from Beckwhite's killer.
And yet despite the couple's eager goodwill, or perhaps because of excessive goodwill, their attentions had left him with a cloying discomfort. They had been so friendly that by the end of the evening, when he demanded to go out, he had felt pushed, felt leaned on. They had let him out with worried little flutterings about whether he would return, and the woman had put a cushion for him outside on a chair.
He ignored the cushion and slept on the marble lady. She held the day's heat until long after midnight.
But he dreamed that he was shut in a cage. And now as he lolled atop the fountain with little droplets of cool water bursting up around him, he began to feel watched. He felt a sudden powerful need to glance up toward the windows of the house. And he found himself flinching at every flick of a winging bird, startling at every blowing leaf, jumpy as a toad on hot pavement.
He stared down at the burbling fountain, blinking in the sun's bouncing reflections, trying to shake off his unease.
But he couldn't shake it, couldn't lose the feeling that those two well-meaning folks would soon get pushy, try to keep him inside by the hearth whether he wanted to stay or not. Try to turn him into a tame little lapcat.
He would like at least one more gourmet meal before he left the premises, but he wasn't going to chance it. It was time to go. Time to cut out. He leaped from the lady's marble rump straight across the pool, through the fountain's spray. Landing on the lip of the pool, he hit the grass running.
Streaking up the cup of gold vine and over the wall, he sailed down in one big jump, hit the woods running free, he was out of there. The leaves crackled and shook beneath his speeding paws, he charged at fallen logs and leaped them, drunk with freedom and speed.
But then, belting along through the woods, he began to think about Clyde. About how he missed Clyde.
He began to think about Clyde and the murder weapon.
Until that moment he had managed to ignore the possible connection of the killer's bright wrench to Clyde. But truth was, that weapon that killed Beckwhite had looked exactly like the new torque wrench Clyde had purchased only a month before.
The package had come to the house via UPS, had been waiting for Clyde when he got home from work. The wrench was handmade, by a craftsman in England. It might, Joe had thought, not be any more efficient than a plain, manufactured wrench, but to Clyde it was cast in gold.
And now, with the wrench stolen among an array of automotive tools, and undoubtedly with Clyde's fingerprints all over it, Joe could only wonder if the whole robbery had been for the express purpose of acquiring a suitably incriminating weapon; to wonder if Clyde was the patsy. If, when the missing weapon was found, Clyde might be taking his meals behind bars. Between the night of the murder, and the night when the killer tried to break into their house looking for a gray tomcat, the newspapers had been full of the murder. The weapon, 'Possibly a piece of metal, perhaps a length of pipe,' had not thus far been found.
None of it made any sense. But if he knew why the killer might want to frame Clyde, maybe he could piece together the scenario, maybe things would begin to add up.
One thing sure, if that was Clyde's wrench that killed Beckwhite, the cops mustn't find it.
He tried to remember if the killer had worn gloves to prevent smearing Clyde's prints, but he could not. He'd been too concerned with saving his own hide.
He broke out of the woods on the crest of the hill, stood staring down at the village. Somehow, he was going to find that wrench.
Studying the roofs half-hidden among the trees, he tried to find his own dark-roofed, white Cape Cod. To find a little glimpse of home. The time was midmorning, and it was Sunday. Clyde would be schlepping around the house unwashed and stubbly, probably still in his Jockey shorts, drinking coffee and reading the sports page. Barney and Rube and the three cats would be napping, either on their two-tiered bunk beds in the laundry or lounging in the sunny backyard.
He was scanning the village, trying to find home, when he glanced down and saw, among the low bushes, a caterpillar spinning its cocoon. Watching it, he was soon fascinated with how the wooly worm's body accordioned so the stiff hairs of its pelt shot left then right. Amazing how skillfully it spun its continuous thread from some wonderful machine in its innards. Excitement touched him, keen interest. He found himself observing the little worm in a disconcertingly unfeline manner.
He studied intently, details he had never before fixed on. Watching the little beast at work, he was caught in
an unaccustomed fever of discovery.
Any normal cat would bat the furry worm and tease it, play with it, crush it, maybe taste it. Though caterpillars were incredibly bitter. But here he was, fascinated by the caterpillar's amazing skill. Its remarkable talent of spinning held him spellbound.
On and on it worked, spitting forth yards of silk, maybe miles of thin thread. The small animal humbled him.
And he realized, with one of those instant, earth-shaking revelations, that this amazing little creature was far too cleverly conceived to have come into the world by accident.
This creature had evolved by some logical and amazing plan. Joe was observing one small portion of some vast and intricate design.
Right before his eyes he was watching a miracle. Nothing less than a boundless and immoderate creativity could account for the complex and efficient little beast working away beneath his nose.
He hunched closer, absorbing every detail.
And this productive little being was only one minute individual in a huge and astonishing array of creatures. He couldn't even conceive of how many beasts there were in the world, each with its own unique skills and talents. He trembled at the wisdom that had made caterpillars and cats, made dogs, birds, and lizards, made the whole gigantic world. It had taken a huge and astonishing intellect to conceive this endless array, an intelligence steeped in some vast mystery.
And I am part of it, he thought. I may be strange and singular, but in some way I am part of the incredible puzzle. Then he smiled, amused by his own unaccustomed intellectual excitement.
Your normal cat would be bored silly with such philosophical conjecture. Your normal cat would stalk off in disgust. A normal cat did not study small creatures with the wonder of discovery, but with an eye to the kill and to a full stomach. A normal cat majored in battle techniques and killing, not philosophy. A normal cat was concerned with the destruction of his prey, not with its meaning and origin.
Cat On The Edge Page 7
